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19
After a full week in England,I’ve spent nearly one hundred hours interviewing Harriet and recording her life story.
We haven’t had any more birding outings or picnics, we’ve just been cloistered in her bookshelf-lined library taking a fine-toothed comb to her memories, her journals, her photographs and her articles. We’ve finally made it to the two thousands. The beginning of her “prolific” phase.
I’m in the overstuffed chintz chair near the fireplace, a wool blanket in my lap, tapping in notes on Harriet’s story.
The library is about the size of my living room, but it doesn’t have any windows, just walls lined with shelves chock-full of books, journals, artifacts, and random pieces of paper stuck in between the pages of books and under Roman helmets or pottery.
Harriet sits on the plaid loveseat across from me, although whenever she gets to an exciting part in her stories, she hops up and paces back and forth across the thinning carpet. The library is a well-loved, well-used room.
“Now, the farmer was named Reginald Hog, the perfect moniker for a pig farmer if you ask me, and he raised Gloucester Old Spots. That was the type of pork in the sausages we had yesterday, dear.”
I nod and try to keep my eyes from crossing. We’ve been working since seven this morning and it’s nearing three in the afternoon. We had a working lunch, and I don’t expect we’ll be stopping until eight for a late dinner.
I think Harriet keeps herself going with pots and pots of black tea and plates of crumbly shortbread.
“One day, when his prize boar was hoofing about in the pen, it pulled up a lump of something unusual.”
“An artifact?” I ask. If I remember correctly, the Hog field discovery was Harriet’s greatest find.
She jumps up from the couch. “That’s right. A small piece of pottery. No bigger than your thumb.”
She hurries over to her walnut secretary desk and begins riffling around. “I know it’s here somewhere. Just a moment.”
I stare at the empty fireplace. Arya’s out at the coast again. She’s spent the entire week wandering the Oliver estate cataloguing birds. Unfortunately, I’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t fate that pulled us here, it was coincidence. And now, my wrongheaded certainty has turned Arya into some tragic, gothic heroine that paces the moors in a flowing white dress, pining for her lost love. Except, she’s wearing bulky drab sweaters instead of a dress. And it’s modern day. But still. The metaphor works.
I’m an idiot for bringing her here.
I’d hoped that Declan would come by. I could badger him into helping reconnect Arya with Percy.
That hope was dashed when I realized he wasn’t actually going to show.
“And that’s how I uncovered a treasure trove of Roman pottery in a farmer’s field. Fascinating, isn’t it?” Harriet stops in front of me with a beatific smile.
I blink at her, then reach down and press stop on my recording. “You are incredible,” I say. And I mean it, even if I didn’t hear the last bit of her story. “I just need a moment to go to the bathroom.”
I can take a minute, rewind the recording and catch up.
“Wonderful idea. I’ll put on the kettle for a spot of tea.”
Hmm. On Mariposa, when a tropical storm or hurricane is on the way, all the Brits run to the store and stock up on boxes and boxes of tea and loads of chocolate biscuits. I always wondered why. Who could possibly drink hundreds of bags of tea during a storm? Now I know. Harriet could.
There’s a soft chiming sound, a ding dong ding. I look around the library.
“That’s the front door,” Harriet says. “I’ll just go see who’s popped round.”
I hurry to the bathroom, put in my earbuds, and push play on the recorder. Three minutes later I’m all caught up. I splash my face with ice-cold water, pinch my cheeks and hop a bit on my toes so that I can stay awake the rest of the afternoon.
When I come out, Harriet’s waiting in the hallway. She has flushed cheeks, and her hair stands up on end. She’s so excited that she reminds me again of the boiling teapot about to whistle from all the bubbling steam.
“Everything alright?” I ask.
She puffs out her cheeks and flaps her hands in front of her. “Your Mr. Fox has come calling.”
Oh. Not what I was expecting. My mind goes blank at the same time as my body goes all liquidy and warm. My subconscious pulls out images of apricots. Weren’t there apricots in the coronation chicken too? Does he like apricots?
Argh. It doesn’t matter what he likes.
“He’s not my Mr. Fox,” I say.
Then I feel ornery because Harriet’s excitement dims. But then she rallies. “I’ve put him in the solarium with a pot of tea and fresh scones, with jam and clotted cream.”
I give her a small smile. “That’s really nice.”
She pats my arm. “I’ll let you have a nice chat. I’m sure you need a break. I’ve been rambling for hours—”
“You don’t ramble.”
“And hours. I do. It’s fine. Needs must make time for love though.”
She winks at me, and I get the feeling that she’s imagining Declan and I had a torrid affair in Mariposa and now that we’ve unexpectedly reunited we’re about to get all hot and heavy in her solarium.
I stare after her then let out a long sigh.
Well, he came.
I run my hands through my hair, then self-consciously pull it over my shoulder. I’m in a brown wool sweater, baggy gray slacks and nubby socks. Oh well, it is what it is. It’s not as if we’re actually about to get it on in the solarium. The only thing I want to do is talk to Declan about Percy and Arya.
With that in mind I square my shoulders, put my chin up and march into the solarium.
Declan sits on the couch near the window. There’s a pot of tea, two tea cups and a plate of scones on the coffee table in front of him.
I clear my throat and he quickly looks up. When he sees me he stands.
I stop walking, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable.
“Hello,” he says. His voice is low and intimate.
My word. My word.
Why does he have to look so beautiful? He’s in a navy pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt. It’s perfectly tailored. He’s shaved, his hair’s been trimmed since last week. He looks…argh, he looks like a classy businessman bazillionaire. How am I supposed to badger him and yell at him now?
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
I’m still standing in the entry, completely without words.
“Fine. Amazing,” I say. Then I frown down at my mud-brown sweater.
He gestures to the coffee table set up with scones and tea.
“Harriet was kind enough to…” He stops talking when I walk around the dining table and join him at the little couch by the window.
“Please,” he says, gesturing to the couch.
He waits until I sit before he joins me.
Okay. So, my plan was to march in here and blame him for my friend becoming a gothic zombie pacing the metaphorical moors. But now…I can’t.
My body vibrates with this warm tension, and the air feels thick and slow. It’s hard to pull in a full breath. The couch is old and the cushions bow to the middle. I unintentionally slide closer to Declan and my thigh rubs against his.
He stiffens, almost imperceptibly.
He clears his throat again and looks at me from the side of his eyes. He feels it too. I know he does.
That doesn’t make it any better though.
We both stare at the tea and scones, not saying anything. Unfortunately, it’s one of those situations where the longer silence goes on, the more awkward it becomes.
Yet, I can’t bring myself to say, “Why the heck did you drag Percy away, you Neanderthal?”
“Tea?” he asks, breaking the silence.
